


my head is filled with ruins (most of them, i built with you)

by carrythesky



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Eve, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Frank doesn't know how to talk to girls so he sends them books instead, Karen and Dinah are BFFs I DON'T MAKE THE RULES FOLKS, Kastle Christmas Secret Santa Gift Exchange, everyone is lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 09:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13164537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrythesky/pseuds/carrythesky
Summary: She keeps the roses. They brighten up her room and sometimes, without thinking, she finds herself running a hand over them, the petals soft and smooth between her fingers. She plucks one from its stem, tucks it under her pillow and sleeps without dreaming.There’s a petal hidden between the pages of the book she’s reading, another slipped down into the pocket of her coat. It’s not enough, it’s not enough but it’s something.





	my head is filled with ruins (most of them, i built with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsSaxon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsSaxon/gifts).



> Kastle Christmas gift exchange for @itsybitsylemonsqueezy/MrsSaxon
> 
> Or: Karen and Frank slowly reconnect after the events of TP. Featuring some angst and hurt/comfort with an eventual happy ending. :) I hope you enjoy and have a great holiday!

Karen sinks back into her routine like she’s trying to hide in it, like if she tries hard enough she can avoid thinking and can just _be_. It’s dark most mornings when she leaves for work and if she’s lucky she’ll actually make it back to the apartment, fall asleep in her bed and not at her desk. Even when she’s not at the office her fingers are never far from her laptop, keeping her busy, keeping the quiet from settling in.

 

There are some things she can’t avoid. She watches the news, knows that something happened at the carousel but isn’t convinced she’s ready to hear what. He’s alive, he’s _alive_ \- and in the rare moments she thinks his name or pictures his face that’s as far as she allows herself to go. She let him go once before. She can do it again.

 

(She keeps the roses. They brighten up her room and sometimes, without thinking, she finds herself running a hand over them, the petals soft and smooth between her fingers. She plucks one from its stem, tucks it under her pillow and sleeps without dreaming.

 

There’s a petal hidden between the pages of the book she’s reading, another slipped down into the pocket of her coat. It’s not enough, it’s not enough but it’s something.)

 

\-----

 

“Karen?”

 

She jerks in her seat, adrenaline spiking through her as her eyes dart up to see Ellison framed in the doorway of her office.

 

“Jesus _christ_ , you scared me,” she gasps.

 

He sighs in response, eyes roving over the empty coffee cups and stacks of paper that litter her desk. “It’s almost midnight.”

 

She turns her eyes back to her screen. “And?”

 

“And what the hell are you still doing here?”

 

He’s on edge, Karen can hear it in his voice and she feels something simmer low in her gut, a quiet anger rising to match his. She’s not in the mood for this tonight so she says, all snark, “My job. You know, the thing you pay me to do?”

 

“Cute,” Ellison says. “That’s real cute, Karen, I get enough of that bullshit from my kids, now I have to deal with it from you, too?”

 

Karen swallows the retort burning on her tongue, takes a deep breath and centers herself in the middle of it. “What do you want, Ellison?”

 

He’s quiet for a moment. She feels his gaze on her like a laser and knows what he’s doing, choosing his next words carefully, methodically turning each one over and analyzing the effect it will have on her. Editorial prowess at its finest.

 

“I’m worried,” he finally says. “About you. And before -” he holds both hands up - “before you tell me I’m being a misogynistic asshole, I know you can take care of yourself. You’re an adult, you can handle things however you want to, I get it. I just -” he heaves a sigh. “I’ve been around the block, alright? I’ve seen too many friends, good people, good journalists, get swept away and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

 

Karen laughs, more breath than anything else. “I’m not...come on, Ellison, I’m not _getting swept away_. So I’m working a few late nights. I’m hardly the first person at this paper to do that.”

 

“It’s not just about working late, although you really need to stop doing that, I can only pay you so much over-time -”

 

“Ellison -”

 

“Does this have anything to do with him?”

 

Karen blinks, processes the words slowly like she’s hearing them from underwater. She is very, very careful to keep her face neutral. “I don’t -”

 

“Cut the shit.” His eyes are cold and hard and the shadows cast up from her desk lamp cut dark lines across his face. “You’re the furthest thing from an idiot and it does you no favors to pretend to be one.”

 

She falls silent, lips cinched tight together and his face softens. “Look,” he says, still firm but with less bite, “it’s been almost two weeks since the world discovered Frank Castle was still alive and suddenly you’re working through the night, barely sleeping, walking around here like a goddamn zombie half the time...you’re telling me none of this has anything to do with him?”

 

She shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I watch the same news as you do. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing now, it has nothing to do with me.”

 

Ellison looks less than convinced. “You’re absolutely sure about that?”

 

Karen feels it then, how tired she is. There’s something hollow inside her, some vacant space she’s not sure will ever be full again and even though it aches to think about him she can’t help but hate Frank for a fleeting, furious moment. She knows it’s unfair, knows that he’s finding the after he deserves on his own terms but she’s sick of dragging all this unfinished business around with her. Just once she’d like someone to lean on, unshoulder the weight and share it.

 

(She doesn’t have that. She has a few moments in an elevator, his skin on hers and all the things they couldn’t say hanging between them in that shared curve of space. She has roses.)

 

“Yeah,” she tells Ellison, “yeah, I’m sure.”

 

\-----

 

Karen’s become a bit of a lightweight since moving to the city. She’s halfway through her second beer when she starts to feel it, warm and tilty like the world’s been pulled off its axis. It’s good, though. It helps.

 

 _‘I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to…’_ her radio hums from across the room and she takes another swig, sways slightly on the couch. Kevin had spent weeks learning this song on guitar, no music, just him picking and strumming away until the chords came to life beneath his fingers.

 

The memory stings, cuts through her alcohol-induced fog. Just another reminder of all the things she’s lost. With a frustrated sigh she grabs her phone, scrolls until she finds Foggy’s face and hovers her finger above the dial button. They’ve talked a handful of times since the hotel bombing but he feels like a stranger these days, more uptown lawyer than friend.

 

She keeps scrolling, stops when she gets to Matt.

 

 _“Shit,”_ she whispers, eyes squeezing shut. Matt’s always been further beyond her reach than she knew, now it’s just permanent. The thought makes something ache, pull beneath her ribs so she shoves it down, straightens up and tosses her phone to the other side of the couch.

 

No Foggy, no Matt.

 

Karen opens her eyes, glances towards the empty window sill.

 

_‘With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves, let me forget about today until tomorrow…’_

 

She tips her head back and drains her beer.

 

\-----

 

Ellison starts screening her work mail the day after the bombing. Karen doesn’t bother protesting. She knows it will get her nowhere and as much as she tries to deny it, she really does appreciate that he cares enough to go through all the trouble.

 

This morning’s delivery is smaller than usual, just a simple package waiting for her on her desk when she gets back from lunch. There’s no name or return address and she peels the wrapping away slowly, uncertain.

 

It’s a book. _Principles of Horticulture._

 

Karen takes a measured breath, then another. There's something written inside the cover, a phone number, and just beneath: _Thought this might help with the roses._

 

She can’t tell if she wants to laugh or scream. This is just like before, _thought I’d try my luck out here, not get my head blown off_. The only difference now is that he’s testing the waters from a distance, letting her decide on her own terms if she wants to see him and it’s somehow both infuriating and a relief all in the same breath.

 

She traces a finger over his words, pulse fluttering in her throat.

 

 _Bastard,_ she thinks and reaches for her phone.

 

\-----

 

He’s grown his hair out again. Karen focuses on that, on the way the sunlight slanting through the window seems to catch and tangle in it, on his hands absently tugging at his beard as he gives the coffee house they’re sitting in a cursory scan. She focuses on the details and pushes the more pressing questions - _why are we here, where has he been, why now why now why now_ \- aside.

 

“You look good,” she says, more to break the silence than anything, but it’s true. His face is just a face, no bruises smudged under his eyelids or in the hollows of his cheeks and his eyes are brighter than she remembers as he glances her direction.

 

“Yeah, you too,” he says, tilting his head. “You get a haircut?”

 

She digs her nails into her palms. “Only a few inches,” she says. “But I like it. I’ve had long hair ever since I moved to the city. Figured it was time for a change.”

 

“Yeah.” His eyes dart to his thumbs, tapping lightly against his coffee cup. “Yeah, that’s good, change is good.”

 

They sit in silence for a few moments, not entirely uncomfortable but still enough to put Karen’s nerves on edge. The questions she wants to ask are sitting heavy in her lungs but she fights the reflex to speak, takes a long swig of coffee instead. Frank initiated this meeting and she’ll leave it to him to explain what he wants.

 

He’s still not looking at her but she can tell he’s anxious, feels the nervous energy radiating off him like sparks. A few months ago she might have reached out, laid a hand on his arm and told him _it’s okay, everything will be okay,_ but things are different now and so is she. The realization is a black hole inside her, nothing but void.

 

“It's done, Karen,” Frank finally says, low in his throat. “It’s over, and at first I didn't know what to do with that. Everything was so quiet, you know, nothin’ but quiet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get out from under that.” He pauses, bobs his head up and down slightly as if to convince himself to keep going. “I have this buddy, runs a group for vets down at St. Mary’s couple times a week. Turns out talking about all this shit, it actually helps. And Curt’s a good guy, yeah? He’s got a good heart. Smart, too, doesn’t take bullshit from anyone. You’d like him.”

 

He lifts his eyes to meet hers as he says this and she gets the vague impression that he’s trying to tell her something else, something more. She takes a breath. “Frank -”

 

“Pete,” he cuts in, mouth twisting. “It’s Pete, now, thanks to Madani and company.”

 

She feels her own lips curve in response. “That’s the best they could give you?”

 

“Yeah,” he says with a smirk, “yeah, you know I asked for Eugene but I guess it was already taken.”

 

Karen laughs, a dry puff of sound. She’s seen this lighter side of him a few times before but it feels different now, genuine, like a weight has been lifted and he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. Maybe, she thinks, maybe this is the closest she’s come to seeing him for who he is. Maybe this is the most honest interaction the two of them have had.

 

As if he can hear her thoughts, the smile fades from his face, his mouth shrinking into a thin line. “Look, Karen,” he says, soft and ragged and almost a whisper, “I wanted to reach out, alright, let you know I was okay. At the very least, I owe you that. But I’m not -” he scrubs a hand across his face. “I want you to know I’m not looking for anything from you, yeah? If you want me to leave, if you don’t want to hear from me - I get it.”

 

There are things Karen wants to say, things he needs to hear but she can’t seem to force the words out of her lungs. She wants to tell him that he deserves happiness, he deserves to live a life day after day like everyone else and she’s proud of him for seeking that out, finding his footing on his own. She’s proud but she’s also tired. It’s too much, him coming back and getting pulled away again, not knowing if the next time she’ll see him will also be the last.

 

She wants to tell him to leave. (She wants to ask him to stay.)

 

“Okay,” she says instead. “Okay.”

 

“Okay,” he echoes.

 

She feels like the look in his eyes, confusion and longing all blurred together like watercolors. Her throat balls up tight as she stands, grabs for her coffee and work bag. “I have to get going -”

 

Frank’s hand jerks slightly, like he’s resisting the urge to reach across the table. “Hey,” he says. “Thanks, Karen.”

 

She releases the breath she was holding, turns to leave and says, over her shoulder, “I’m not calling you Pete.”

 

He laughs and it sounds a lot like hope.

 

\-----

 

Karen goes the better part of a week without seeing or hearing from him. She knows he has her number and he definitely knows where she lives, but he doesn’t reach out. He’s giving her space, time to decide what she wants.

 

She’s still working on that part.

 

With the end of the week and a deadline rapidly approaching, Karen goes into full work-mode, holed up at her desk and ignoring anything and anyone that isn’t her computer. She’s so absorbed that she doesn’t notice Ellison until he’s halfway through her door, poking his head into her office.

 

“Hey, Christiane Amanpour,” he says. “You have a visitor.”

 

“Tell them I’m busy,” Karen says without looking up from her screen.

 

“Yeah, I tried that,” Ellison replies. “This woman’s pretty insistent, says she just needs a few minutes of your time.” He pauses for a beat. “You’re not in trouble with the feds, are you? Because she looks like a fed.”

 

Karen stops typing and glances up. “Did she give you her name?”

 

“Dinah, I think she said -”

 

She pushes back from her desk, runs a hand through her hair. “ _Shit._ ”

 

“Do I want to know what this is about?” Ellison says, fixing her with a scrutinous stare, and she hesitates before answering. This _has_ to be about Frank, there’s no other logical explanation. For a fleeting moment she wonders if his name is really clear, wonders if everything he’d told her at the coffee house had been a lie -

 

But no, she thinks with a shake of her head, no, Frank’s doesn’t lie, at least not to her. She trusts him.

 

Ellison is still looking at her so she quirks her lips and gives a vague half-shrug. “Send her in and we’ll find out, I guess.”

 

Dinah is smaller than she remembers, stepping into Karen’s office a few moments later, but she still carries herself like her spine is made of steel, a force of nature wearing human skin. It’s a strength that’s almost palpable and Karen can’t help but admire it.

 

“Agent Madani,” she says with what she hopes is a neutral tone, “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

 

Dinah’s lips tug into a grin. “Just a bit of _gentle intimidation_ from one professional to another?”

 

“More like impending story deadlines,” Karen says, gesturing for her to sit. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“Would you believe me,” Dinah answers, eyes sparkling, “if I told you I wasn’t here to talk about our friend Pete?”

 

Karen laughs softly. “To be honest, no.”

 

“That’s...fair,” Dinah replies with a laugh of her own, and Karen finds herself momentarily stunned by the sound. _We once had a conversation about trust_ , Dinah had told her after the bombing, and she’d started to believe then, that maybe this woman was different, maybe the system could work.

 

“Agent Madani -” she starts to say, but Dinah politely cuts in.

 

“Call me Dinah,” she says, and then, almost as an afterthought, “please.”

 

“Dinah,” Karen repeats, hesitant. “Listen, I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to come across town, but I’m up to my neck in unfinished work -”

 

“And you’d appreciate it if I skipped the small talk and told you why I was here.” There’s something in Dinah’s voice, something layered just beneath the veneer of poise and professionalism that she recognizes but can’t quite place. “Look, Karen, you’re clearly very good at what you do. I wasn’t trying to patronize you when I said that you’ve made quite a name for yourself since moving to the city. I think we both want the same things. And between the two of us, I think we could do a lot of good.”

 

Karen’s lips twist wryly. “Sounds like Homeland wants a friend at the Bulletin.”

 

“ _I_ would like a friend at the Bulletin. Someone I know I can trust, who I know will fight as hard as I will for the truth. Think of it as a sort of _informal_ partnership. I help you, you help me - everyone wins.”

 

Not for the first time, Karen is taken in by Dinah’s presence, the unfaltering conviction behind each word that falls from her lips. She certainly knows what she wants and Karen feels a sharp stab of resentment, eclipsed only by frustration with her own indecisiveness.

 

“I’m not sure what to say,” she admits.

 

Dinah digs through her bag and retrieves a business card, which she offers to Karen. “I completely understand. All I’m asking is for you to think about it.”

 

“Yeah,” Karen replies, “yeah, absolutely, I will.”

 

A thin silence falls between the two of them as Dinah stands, shoulders her bag and turns towards the door -

 

“I never thanked you,” Karen says, the words breezing past her lips in a rush before she can stop them. “Everything you did for...for Pete, for his case...I know it might not mean much but it’s good to know there are people like you who care about doing the right thing. Thank you, Dinah.”

 

Dinah ducks her head, fingers curling around the door handle. “I know what it’s like to be lied to by people I trust,” she says softly. “I’ve never felt so powerless, so alone. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

 

Karen feels each word like a gut-punch, all the shame and loneliness she’s kept so carefully buried suddenly wrenched out and laid in front of her on display. The vacant space within her swells, and as she looks at Dinah she sees the same pain and heartache mirrored on her face.

 

“Hey,” she says, tilting her head to catch Dinah’s gaze, “I know we don’t really know each other but if you ever want to talk, even if it’s not work-related -” she breaths a laugh. “You know where to find me.”

 

Dinah’s smile is soft and sad. “I’d like that.” She hesitates, looks like she might want to say more but instead shakes her head and pulls the door open. “Thank you again for your time, Karen."

 

Ellison pokes his head in a few moments after she leaves. “So?” he says. “What did she want?”

 

Karen moves Dinah’s business card between her thumb and index finger, presses hard against the sharp corners.

 

“I’ll let you know,” she says.

 

\-----

 

Her father had liked routines, doing the same thing at the same time every day. Karen could time it down to the minute when he’d be out the door in the morning, and as soon as he was gone everything felt lighter, like the whole house had been holding its breath waiting for him to leave. She grew up appreciating the meaning of time, learning how much of it was hers to hoard.

 

Her deadline comes and goes, then the weekend, then half of the next week, and as she’s packing up from her latest long night at the office she starts thinking about routines, routines and the time that’s eaten up by them. She can almost hear her father’s voice in her ear, cold and calculating, _looks like I taught you something after all_ -

 

She’s on edge the rest of the evening, unable to quiet her thoughts or her feet as she restlessly prowls her apartment. Frank’s horticulture book catches her eye every time she circles back through her bedroom and she finally grabs it, sinks onto the couch and flips to a random page -

 

 _Rose bailing,_ she reads, _is a condition in which the outer petals of the flower die and become stiff. The inner petals are thus prevented from emerging to produce a normal bloom_ -

 

(She doesn’t remember falling asleep. All she knows is that she’s downstairs, curled up in the dark against the far corner of the closet and waiting. Even with her hands pressed over her ears she can still hear the shouting, like muted thunder from a storm in the distance. Their arguments are getting worse.

 

 _You’re far away,_ she thinks fiercely, _you’re somewhere far, far away -_

 

There’s a rumble of approaching footsteps and then someone is yanking the closet door open. Karen flinches, squints against the sudden brightness, and she’s -

 

\- overlooking the water, sitting on a bench beneath a wide canvas of sky. She hears him come up behind her but keeps her eyes elsewhere, skims the horizon and imagines wings sprouting between her shoulder blades, lifting her up and away into the endless blue. Up and away, gone so easily.

 

“Why are you here?” she asks, still not looking at him.

 

Frank is quiet a moment before answering, softly, “Don’t you know?”

 

She wakes with a sigh.)

 

\-----

 

Karen’s never really believed in things like fate, but when she runs into Frank the next day she has to wonder if the universe is laughing at her.

 

He’s two people in front of her in line at the coffee joint and she doesn’t notice until he turns his profile, looking at something out the window. She freezes, staring at him and he must feel her eyes locked on his face because he turns just a fraction further to meet her gaze, brows cinching together with surprise when he’s sees it’s her.

 

She stifles the urge to laugh. What was it Mahoney had said? _Funny how the two of you keep bumping up together_.

 

He lingers by the door while she pays for her drink and the two of them leave together, falling into step like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like walking shoulder to shoulder down the street in broad daylight is something they’ve done many times before.

 

“You’re not following me, are you?” Karen asks, taking a drink of coffee to hide her smirk.

 

“Nah,” he says and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Not my style.”

 

She darts a glance his direction. “Right. You’re an old-fashioned kind of guy.”

 

He chuckles low in his throat, lips slanting up at the corner and Karen swigs down another gulp of coffee to give herself something to do besides stare at him as they continue walking. She’s keenly aware of how close he is, elbows knocking lightly together as she adjusts her purse, but she makes no move to widen the distance between them.

 

(He doesn’t either, she notices, something bright thrumming in her chest.)

 

It’s warm for late December, but Karen still dips her nose into her scarf as a thin breeze kicks up. The cold here reminds her of Vermont, humid and biting, the kind that settles deep in your bones. She really should be more used to it than she is, she thinks, tugging her coat more tightly around her.

 

“You cold?” Frank asks, with only a hint of judgment.

 

She shoots him her best mock-glare. “You’re not?”

 

“I’m warm-blooded. Takes more than this to make my teeth chatter.”

 

“Yeah, my brother was the same,” she replies automatically, the words tumbling out before she can process them. “Kevin, he practically lived outside in the winter, no problem, shoveled snow in jeans and a t-shirt like it wasn’t below freezing outside. He -” she swallows, hard, heat rising in her throat and cheeks as she forces the next words out. “He’s gone, now. Passed away a few years ago.”

 

They slow to a stop at the next corner. Karen realizes, with stinging clarity, that this is the first time she’s said it out loud since moving to the city, the first time she’s admitted to someone else that her brother is gone.

 

“Hey,” Frank is saying, leaning in. “Karen, hey, I’m...I’m sorry -”

 

She shakes her head. “I don’t know why I told you that. I just...” she laughs harshly, tugs a hand through her hair. “I just forget, sometimes, you know? I forget exactly how long it’s been. I’ll go days or weeks without thinking about him and then something or somebody will remind me...”

 

His eyes never leave her face so she sees the shift when it happens, a subtle flash of pain that bursts across his face one moment and vanishes the next as he attempts to cover. Karen knows what heartache feels like, how it drags and scrapes against the ribs, the _weight_ of it, and that’s how Frank’s eyes look now, heavy with complete and absolute understanding. He knows what it’s like to hurt. He knows it like she does, in the most personal way.

 

 _“Shit,”_ she hisses, “Frank, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean -”

 

“Don’t,” he cuts in, “don’t, Karen, don’t do that.” He steps closer and before she can register what he’s doing he’s reaching up, brushing his thumb along the hollow of her cheek. His eyes search her face, fire-bright. “You have nothin’ to be sorry for, you got that?”

 

Karen nods slowly. Her skin burns where he’s touching her and it’s all she can do in this moment to remember how to breathe. She recognizes the look in his eyes, fractured and pleading and soft in a way he might have been when he was just Frank Castle, nothing more. It's hope and fear tangled up like wires, like if he tries hard enough he can tether them both to this moment.

 

( _Danger,_ her heart kicks in her chest, _danger danger_ -)

 

“So,” she breathes, “what now?”

 

The sound of her voice seems to break the spell. Frank blinks, lets his hand fall and rocks away from her. She can see his jaw working, fingers fluttering at his sides.

 

“You tell me,” he says as he tilts a glance up at her.

 

“I should be getting back to work,” she says, inclining her head in the direction of the Bulletin. “That’s -” she presses her lips together, wills her pounding heart to settle. “That’s about as far into the future I can see right now.”

 

The look on his face isn’t quite disappointment but it still makes something twist in her gut. “Yeah,” he says, backing away, “alright, yeah.” His eyes find hers. “See you around, Karen.”

 

\-----

 

( _For watering seeds and cuttings_ , she reads later that night, _a fine rose turned upwards is recommended in order to minimize any disturbance by droplets_ -)

 

\-----

 

The roses finally start to wilt the week leading up to Christmas. She cuts the stems and lets them dry, hangs them in the hallway so they’re the first thing she sees when she comes home.

 

The day after that, she buys herself a fresh pot.

 

Halfway through the week she ducks out of the office early to meet Dinah for drinks at the dive bar down the block from her apartment. It’s not Josie’s but it has its own personality, and besides, she tells herself, she’s starting fresh. Moving forward.

 

Dinah is surprisingly easy to talk to, once the initial awkwardness has settled and they’ve both made it through their first beer. She tells Karen about her family and growing up in the city, and Karen laughs as she fires back with a stories about rural, small-town Vermont. She tiptoes around the questions Dinah asks her about her family, sharing just enough to satisfy before dancing to a new subject.

 

(Frank’s face swims behind her eyes for a moment, just a moment.)

 

“I don’t know, Karen,” Dinah is saying, “Fagan Corners sounds very appealing to me. Quiet, charming, no national conspiracies or organized crime.” She shoots Karen an all-knowing glance. “No vigilantes.”

 

Karen smiles and tips her beer back. “I’ll drink to that.”

 

Dinah follows suit, finishing hers and gesturing to the bartender for another. “God, so much has changed. I used to love this city, you know? It was never just a place to live.”

 

Karen tilts her head. “And now?”

 

“Now -” Dinah sighs, pushes back in her seat. “Now I just see its shadows.”

 

( _I don’t see the city anymore. All I see are its dark corners -_ )

 

“If it makes you feel better,” Karen says, “I feel the same.”

 

Dinah looks at her, long and hard. “How do you live with it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Karen replies, a confession. “Most days I’m just making it up as I go, trying to stay afloat.” She holds her beer up. “This definitely helps.”

 

“I’ll drink to _that,_ ” Dinah smiles in that soft-sad way and Karen feels the vacant space within her begin to shrink, change. It might never be whole again, not the way it once was and for the first time in as long as she can remember, the thought doesn’t scare her.

 

 _Change is good,_ Frank’s voice echoes in her ears and she carries his words home with her that night, something bright and buoyant stirring its restless wings against her ribs. Her hand brushes up against her phone, once, twice, and then she’s fishing it from her pocket, fingers shaking as she punches in Frank’s number.

 

 _To making it up as I go,_ she thinks, and hits dial.

 

\-----

 

With no holiday plans and Christmas Eve a day away, Karen throws caution to the wind and invites him over. He tells her not to worry about food so she spends the day cleaning her apartment, working out all her nervous energy. Halfway through her second round of vacuuming she briefly considers calling to cancel, every nerve in her body screaming to run, get away from this thing before it spirals into something she can’t control, and it’s this barrage of thoughts that keeps her from reaching from the phone. They're on the precipice of something here and even though she's terrified, she's tired of running from it.

 

 _Use two hands and don’t let go,_ he’d told her a lifetime ago, and she has to laugh. It only took her a year and a half to listen.

 

Frank shows up a few hours later with a bag of takeout in one hand and flowers in the other. The small bouquet is an assorted arrangement and Karen dips her face towards the petals as he hands it to her, breaths in the powdery-sweet aroma.

 

“They’re not much to look at,” he grunts under his breath. “Best I could do this close to the holiday.”

 

Karen glances up. He’s shifting his weight between both feet, eyes firmly on the ground and he looks so _uncomfortable_ that it would almost be funny if it were anyone else but him standing in her doorway. This is uncharted territory but she refuses to spend the evening like this, both of them tiptoeing around the other and unable to relax, so before she can change her mind she steps forward and kisses him softly on the cheek.

 

The stunned look on his face when she backs away is enough to pull a laugh from her lungs. “What?” she says as coyly as she can, “you’re the only one who gets to do that?”

 

His answering laugh is rough, a low scrape of sound against his throat. “Sorry, Karen, I just - you scare the hell out of me, you know that? _Christ_ , I feel like a goddamn teenager again.”

 

“Hey,” Karen says, meeting his sparking gaze head-on. “I’m scared, too. But it’s me, Frank. You know I don’t bite. Usually.” She cocks her head in the direction of the living room. “Let’s just start with dinner, see where things go from there. Deal?”

 

His smile is crooked, all teeth, the one she’s starting to think is just for her. “Yeah,” he says. “Deal.”

 

\-----

 

They eat on her couch, takeout boxes scattered across the coffee table and Christmas music crooning from the radio in the corner of the room. Frank knows his way around a pair of chopsticks, something that shouldn’t surprise her but does anyways. He’s always doing that, catching her off guard with glimpses of the person he used to be.

 

Their conversation is sparse but the silences in between aren’t uncomfortable. Karen appreciates that Frank doesn’t talk simply to talk - she feels more herself sitting quietly with him than she does anywhere else, she thinks, watching him reach for the fried rice. He’s perched a safe distance away, both feet planted firmly on the floor but Karen has opted for a more comfortable position, tucked against the corner of the couch with both legs bent at the knees in front of her. She’s not sure if it’s intentional or not, but he shifts closer to her as they eat, close enough that she could reach out with her foot and nudge his thigh if she wanted to.

 

(She wants to, she _really_ does -)

 

“You, uh -” he glances over at her and she curls her toes up quickly against the impulse. “You want the last eggroll?”

 

“I’ll split it with you.”

 

He makes an appreciative sound in his throat. “Miss Page, all heart.”

 

“Only because it’s Christmas Eve,” she fires back and when he laughs she’s momentarily lost in the flash of his teeth, the crinkle of skin into laugh lines beneath his eyes, the way his face changes and melts into something that’s less Punisher and more human. She aches with the feeling that this is who he could be, this is who _they_ could be, two people filled to the brim with more happiness than either of them know how to hold.

 

 _‘Christmas Eve will find me where the lovelight gleams…’_ the radio sighs -

 

“Frank,” she says, almost a whisper but his eyes still snap to hers, laughter dissolving on his tongue. Pulse roaring like thunder in her ears, she reaches out and grazes her fingers against his wrist. His eyes are blazing, fire and starlight and her breath catches in her throat as he softly turns his hand, draws his fingertips against hers.

 

“What do we do here?” he rasps, voice hitching against the words. “Please, Karen, just - just tell me what to do.”

 

She can feel every point of contact between them, every nerve sparking and singing as the pads of his fingers skim along hers. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what this is or where we go from here -”

 

She trails off, suddenly aware of just how close they are. His eyes drift to her mouth and she’s not sure who leans in first, only that she can feel the warmth of his breath and his lips are brushing against hers and there’s nothing, nothing beyond the two of them and this moment.

 

“Okay,” he breathes, reverent and hopeful.

 

Karen smiles. “Okay,” she says, and closes the space between them.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the book passages Karen reads are taken from the actual _Principles of Horticulture_ (thank you, Google Books hahahaha)
> 
> Thanks for reading and feel free to yell with me about these two on [tumblr!](https://carry-the-sky.tumblr.com/)


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